


The Ox and the Loon

by TheNightComesDown



Category: The Who (Band)
Genre: Band Fic, Classic Rock, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Gay Sex, Hotel Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, The Who - Freeform, The Who AU, The Who Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 20:04:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: John and Keith are drunk and alone together in a hotel room; what could possibly happen?





	The Ox and the Loon

**Author's Note:**

> The universe asked for Moontwistle, and I have delivered.

The first time Keith Moon kissed John Entwistle, it was entirely a joke. The drummer, a well-known jokester with a penchant for physical comedy, had managed to plant a smooch on both Roger and Pete, but had yet to catch John unawares. The bassist, always considered the quiet one of the group, was ever watchful, and had sidestepped many a prank that Keith had attempted to pull over him.

The perfect opportunity presented itself, understandably, when John had drunk a bit too much gin one night after a gig. Pete, who had recently taken an interest in Eastern spirituality, had retired to his and Roger’s shared room to indulge in whatever substance he felt might bring him closer to God, and Roger had promised a pretty young woman he’d met backstage that he’d walk her back to her nearby flat – after which point he neglected to return. This left John and Keith alone, tipsy and giggling, in their shared suite. 

“Now _that_,” Keith declared, between exaggerated hiccups, “is what I call a show.” He and John were seated side-by-side on the bassist’s bed, the duvet and pillows of which were still as they had been when housekeeping had done the bed up prior to their arrival. The topic of discussion had turned towards the sold-out music hall they’d played that evening. 

“I thought Pete was about to tear the arse right out of his trousers,” John chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. “I’ve never seen him jump so high. You’d have thought he was a kangaroo.” Keith cracked up again, and in his giddiness, slumped over towards John, whose shoulder provided a comfortable resting place for his head. 

“Do I look like a pillow, Moonie?” John teased, playfully ruffling his friend’s hair with his knuckles. When he received no answer, he turned his head down, and was met with an exuberant and ridiculously sloppy kiss, directly on his mouth. Keith had been waiting for the perfect moment, and had taken the opportunity the moment it arose. 

“Ha! Gotcha, didn’t I?” Keith howled, squeezing John’s arm. The bassist rolled his eyes and allowed his head to loll back against the headboard of the bed. 

“Very funny, you silly loon,” he mumbled sarcastically; in reality, he’d not found it funny at all. For weeks now, he’d been completely distracted by Keith’s presence. Whether they were shovelling down the breakfast John’s mother had made them for breakfast, or noodling around on their instruments in the studio, John had become enamoured with the way the drummer walked and spoke and moved. It had alarmed him at first, this sudden obsession; his heartbeat had never quickened at the sight of any other man before. Once he’d identified the feeling – infatuation, or maybe love – he’d been more ashamed than anything else. It was all well and good for Pete to mess around with men, but that _wasn’t_ what John was about. 

“John-boy, are you listening?” Keith’s voice caught his attention. When he shook his fringe out of his eyes and glanced down at his doe-eyed friend, John realized that he’d been lost in his own thoughts. 

“What is it?” John asked, trying to keep his tone light and free of annoyance or guilt. As silly as Keith behaved, he was very perceptive to moods – especially those of the people in whose company he spent most of his time. Even piss-drunk, Keith could tell when something was the matter with one of his friends. 

“I was trying to ask what was on your mind,” Keith repeated. “You seem…far away.” 

“Sorry,” John apologized. “Just daydreaming, I suppose.” 

“What about?” 

“You.” The word slipped out as if it were a boot on an icy sidewalk. What little colour John possessed drained from his face, pooling in what he assumed were the bases of his lungs; he could barely breathe now. Keith’s expression morphed from confusion, to realization, and back to confusion in fractions of a second. 

“Me?” Keith murmured, looking up at John from beneath his dark lashes. His eyes, which were lined with dark kohl on Pete’s insistence, focused intensely on the bassist’s face. John began to pray in his head to a god that he didn’t believe in, asking to be smote by lightning on the spot, or to melt into a puddle of blood and viscera, whichever would be more painful. Instead, John was met with a reaction so unexpected, he thought that the gods must have answered his prayer, and whisked him into the afterlife. 

Keith’s mouth felt remarkably similar to a girl’s against his, John thought: warm and soft and sweet, and flavoured with just a hint of vodka. Still believing he must be in a dream, John’s hands tangled themselves into Keith’s unruly hair. One of his rings caught on a snarl of hair without John noticing, and as he moved his hand to cup Keith’s face, the hair was yanked on hard enough to rip some of it clean from his scalp. A pained yelp escaped the drummer’s mouth, bringing John back to his senses. He broke the kiss and wrenched backwards, gasping for breath. 

“Christ, John, that hurt,” Keith grouched, clutching the side of his head. “Take those bloody things off if you’re going to do that.” John’s mouth fell open; _that_ was the thing upsetting Keith the most about the entire situation – a bit of pulled hair? 

“Keith, what the fuck…” John’s speech slowed to a stop. 

“Hmm?” Keith raised an eyebrow. 

“Your lip’s bleeding,” John muttered. Keith ran his tongue across his lower lip. His nose scrunched up in distaste at the metallic tang of blood. 

“Have you never kissed anyone before, John-boy?” Keith demanded, now dabbing at his lip with his index finger. He inspected the tip of the finger, saw a drop of blood, and shoved the appendage indignantly towards John’s face. “Look at this! You aren’t supposed to bite people, don’t you know?” 

John stared at the drop of blood as though it might sprout a pair of eyes and a mouth, and start speaking to him; that made about as much sense to him as Keith’s reaction to what he’d done. When he received no response, Keith’s eyes snapped up and regarded the bassist with confusion. 

“John, are you alright?” 

“I don’t think so,” John responded, pressing the palms of his hands against his face. 

“Oh.” Keith’s face fell. “Was it not…_good_ for you?” John froze; as he processed Keith’s words, he ceased to breathe for a good half minute. 

“That’s not it at all,” John tried to explain when he’d regained his composure. “No, it’s just that…you’re pissed, and so am I. And when you sober up, you’ll either have forgotten this ever happened, or you’ll be horrified and never speak to me again.” John shook his head in frustration. “I shouldn’t have started this. It was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.” 

“Let’s give it another go,” Keith insisted, reaching for John’s hand. “I was just surprised about the hair thing. Come on, now.” John had draped an arm over his face, and was pretending not to hear the drummer’s voice. He seemed to think that this string of events would be the end of their friendship. Keith set his face in a hard scowl, unimpressed with the game John was choosing to play. 

“Fine then, if it has to be this way, then that’s how we’ll do this,” Keith conceded. Without warning, he rose up onto his knees, shifting his weight until he was able to throw one leg over John’s body. He sat down hard, dropping onto John’s pelvis as if it were a chair. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Keith,” John yelped, “You don’t have to crush me to get what you want.” Satisfied that the bassist was at least acknowledging him now, Keith set his hands on either side of John’s head. 

“May I, Mister Entwistle?” Keith asked politely; his voice had shifted into that of a well-educated, posh Londoner. Until today, John had only ever imagined his bandmate being this close. Their group of friends had always been teasing and affectionate with one another, but having Keith seated atop him and insisting upon a snog wasn’t something he’d ever thought would happen. 

“Okay,” John said, his voice wavering ever so slightly. Keith’s expression was one of concentration, as though this were something he could mess up. He leaned down, coming to a stop just before their lips could meet. 

“John?” he murmured, the warmth of his breath fanning over the bassist’s face. 

“Hmm?” John made a noise in his throat, but the sound was choked by the sudden wave of nervous energy pulsing through his veins. 

“I’m sorry for shouting about the hair thing. I should have jus—” 

“Jesus, Keith, just fucking kiss me already,” John interrupted. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he thought if he had to wait another moment, it might explode. With his apology out in the open, Keith bridged the gap between them and parted John’s lips with his own. Where there had been hesitation before, there was none now; hands roamed freely, caressing and groping as eagerly as if this were the first time they’d ever fooled about with anyone. When Keith felt John’s arousal twitch beneath him, he couldn’t stop himself from grinding his hips against his bandmate’s; he felt his own excitement becoming too much to contain. 

“Shirt off,” John instructed, halting the kiss just long enough to give Keith direction. “Belt, too.” Keith was practically gasping for breath at this point; a blush was creeping up his chest and neck, as it always did when his adrenaline was running high. When the drummer’s trembling fingers proved useless at unbuttoning the front of his own shirt, John grabbed Keith’s hands and held them tightly in his own. 

“You’re shaking,” he observed with concern. As much as he was personally enjoying whatever it was they were getting into, he couldn’t go on when Keith was so worked up. “Let’s slow down for a minute, yeah?” Keith shook his head adamantly; this was what they both wanted. 

“Fuck, just help me,” Keith exhaled in frustration. “I can’t get these bloody buttons undone.” John put his hands against Keith’s chest and gave him a firm push backward, giving himself enough room to pull his legs out from beneath his friend. 

“Swap places with me,” John said sternly. “Come on, now, be a gent and do as I say.” 

“What for?” Keith asked, frustrated; he didn’t trust John to not stop things altogether, not after he’d lost his cool earlier at the slightest setback. 

“Just trust me, Moonie,” John insisted, crooking a finger toward the drummer. “Come ‘ere, will ya?” Hesitantly, Keith moved to sit against the headboard where John had been moments before. John knelt on the bed facing him, and with a renewed sense of confidence, made quick work of Keith’s buttons. When the last one was undone, he gently slipped his hands over the drummer’s shoulders, assisting him in sliding the shirt down past his wrists. 

“Thanks, love,” Keith said appreciatively. He waited tensely for John to do the same with his belt, but instead, the bassist leaned forward and set his hands on either side of Keith’s hips. He pressed a single kiss to Keith’s lips, another to his cheek, and then continued downward. The drummer tilted his chin back, allowing John access to his neck. 

“Oh, Keith,” John groaned, sucking at the sensitive skin of his bandmate’s throat. “You’re too fucking much.” His words set Keith’s heart racing once again. 

“Don’t leave marks, now,” Keith scolded gently, guiding John’s kisses away from his neck. “It’s too hot for me to wear a rollneck this week, and I’m not explaining your work to Rog and Pete.” John’s tongue trailed across one of his collarbones, and Keith couldn’t help but release a sigh of pleasure. 

“What’s that now? You want me to stop?” John’s voice was low and heavy now, almost a growl. The drummer squirmed beneath him, desperate for John to move things along. 

“I can’t do this, John,” he gasped, “Just take your fucking clothes off.” He felt the bassist smile against his skin, and the man abated, as requested. John’s shirt came off and joined Keith’s on the floor beside the bed. Crawling forward, Keith laid John out on the bed and pressed his body against his. Their chests were both warm and beaded with sweat, and their skin clung to each other’s with a painful stickiness. 

“May I?” John’s hands were settled on the bare skin above the waistband of Keith’s trousers, but he wanted explicit permission before progressing any further. 

“Please,” Keith encouraged. “Yours too, John-boy.” Instead of stripping their trousers off straight away, John tangled his legs with Keith’s and pulled him into another passionate kiss. He froze up when he felt the drummer’s tongue against his lips, but trusting that Keith maybe knew some things he didn’t, he forced himself to relax and go with the flow. 

Keith’s patience was waning; as much as he enjoyed the intimacy of their current activity, he felt a growing need for some sort of release. Sliding his knees down onto the mattress, he stabilized himself to the point where he could rock his hips against John’s. The friction it created was enough to whet their appetites, but nothing more. 

“Gimme a second,” John requested, grabbing Keith by his belt loops. “Lift yourself up – there you go, Moon, just like that.” The bassist’s deft fingers undid the button and zipper of Keith’s trousers, and his long arms wiggled them down towards the man’s feet. 

“You too,” Keith insisted. “But it’s my turn. Lie back, and don’t move.” John rested his head against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling; as much as he was enjoying himself, he had a real hankering for a cigarette. When the cool air of the hotel room hit his legs, a shiver ran through his body. 

“Fuck, it’s cold in here,” he began to say, but as Keith’s hand gripped him through his briefs, a cry of surprise cut his sentence off. 

“What was that?” Keith asked innocently, glancing up at John. A cheeky grin spread across his face; he knew exactly what his hands were capable of, and he was more than happy to watch as John unravelled at his touch. His own pleasure could wait a moment; John had been patient for weeks and weeks. 

“Oh, fuck,” John groaned, clutching at the bedsheets beneath him as Keith stroked his length. “Fuck, oh fuck, Keith, don’t stop.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

* * * * * 

Finally both spent, John and Keith lay panting in a tangled heap in the centre of the bed. The drummer’s head rested on the bassist’s chest, which rose and fell with every heavy breath. The ceiling fan rotated above them, and they drew closer together to keep warm. 

“Good thing we have two beds,” John deadpanned, glancing down to meet his lover’s eyes. “This one’s a bit wet for my tastes.” A happy, tired grin broke out across Keith’s lips; he hadn’t the energy to howl with laughter as he might have earlier in the night, but he still had enough in him to show his appreciation for John’s strange sense of humour. 

“Wonder what Pete and Rog are up to now,” Keith wondered aloud. The clock on the wall read well past midnight by now, but they’d not heard from either of their bandmates since they had left them hours before. 

“Probably not this,” was the response he received. “But then again, you never know with Pete. He’s a very persuasive chap, Townshend is.” 

“And he’s got a big—” 

“Imagination, yes,” John cut the drummer off. “Speaking of which, let’s rinse off and tuck into the other bed, and see what our minds can come up with while we sleep. Get some inspiration for the studio, maybe.” 

“Nah, I prefer my dreams wet,” Keith said, smirking. “You can dream of creepy, crawly spiders all you want, though. I’ll protect you – Boris can’t get you if you’re with me.” 

“Brilliant,” John mumbled groggily; his lack of energy and the amount of alcohol he’d imbibed earlier in the night suddenly seemed to be catching up with him. “Help me up, Moon, will you?” 

“I’ll not be carrying you,” Keith warned, clambering out of bed. He was somehow still steady on his feet, despite the earlier feeling that his legs might never hold his weight again after John had finished with him. Slipping an arm beneath John’s wide shoulders, Keith sat him up in bed. “‘Ere we go, love, up we go now.” 

“Thank you,” John murmured. At 13 stone and six, and just under six feet tall, the bassist was no small man. Keith managed to half drag, half support him as far as the shower, where John insisted upon lying down on the cool floor of the tub. 

_This’ll wake him up,_ Keith thought as he cranked the knob of the shower towards the blue line indicating temperature. Sure enough, John scrambled to his feet as soon as the freezing cold water splashed down onto him. 

“Fucking ‘ell, Keith,” John thundered, grabbing at the curtain rod for support. “Are you trying to kill me?” Keith angled his chin up towards John, and his unspoken request for a kiss was begrudgingly granted. 

“Wash up, yeah?” Keith suggested, stepping into the tub behind John. “Before all the hot water runs out, preferably.” A bar of soap provided by the cleaning staff was wrapped in plastic packaging on the ledge of the tub. Keith opened it and rubbed the bar across John’s shoulders and back. 

“Why does that sting so much?” John complained, rinsing his hair beneath the stream of water. Keith grimaced, knowing full well why the soap was causing John pain. In his earlier attempt to pull John closer in bed, he had raked his nails down the bassist’s back. Several angry, red lines ran from his shoulders down to the dimples above his arse, a temporary memento from their first night together. There was no blood, but he guessed that the skin would scab over in a day or so. 

“Dunno,” Keith shrugged. “Trade places with me before I freeze to death.” 

The two finished their shower in silence, wasting time only once to stand together beneath the showerhead with their lips locked as steaming water rained down on them. They towelled off, and Keith gently teased John about the black dye staining his towel. The previous afternoon, the bassist had decided to touch up his hair. For the next few days, traces of dye would still rinse out whenever he showered; until then, he would ruin every towel he touched. 

When they finally crawled into the clean bed, both men were exhausted. They’d been sure to lock the door, and to call down to the front desk for a wakeup call at 9 the next morning but now they had nothing further to accomplish. John laid an arm across the mattress just below Keith’s pillow so that when Keith curled up beside him, he could throw an arm across his waist, and hold him as they slept. 

“Will you still speak to me tomorrow?” Keith asked between yawns. 

“Certainly not,” John replied with a smile, planting a kiss on the back of Keith’s neck. “Any last words before I ignore you forever?” 

“I love you,” was Keith’s answer. John’s breath caught in his throat; this hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear, but he believed it. He swallowed the lump in his throat, pulled Keith tighter, and yanked on the cord of the bedside table lamp, plunging their room into darkness. 

“Love you, too, Keith.” 


End file.
